<
Nobody outdid the offer. People stepped back, gawping in amazement—few had ever seen a coin of as high value as an angel, otherwise known as a pony. The Picktree miller made sure they didn’t get much of a look at it. As soon as he had bitten the heavy golden disk to test its authenticity, he pocketed it, handed the rope halter to Roisin, and disappeared swiftly into the crowd, doubtless afraid he might have become a target for cut-purses or less subtle robbers.
The transaction completed, the bystanders now focused their attention on the new owners, calling out advice and questions. Imrhien stepped up to the terrified wight and slipped off the rope. Instantly the crowd scattered. The little waterhorse reared up on its hind legs, whinnied and dashed away, mane and tail streaming, bursting through the multitude, causing it to split and roar and curse like some many-headed monster.
“What have you done?” cried Muirne.
<>
As the nygel galloped off, a movement overhead caught Imrhien’s attention. A Windship passed high above, departing from Tarv Tower under full sail, coursing through the cloudless skies like a lean greyhound. Imrhien felt her taltry fall back as she tilted her head for a quick glance. Swiftly she pulled up the hood once more and turned back to the carriage. As she put her foot up on the step, she paused, sensing someone watching her. She glimpsed a short figure, with squinting eyes gleaming from the shadows of its own cowl. An odd face—very odd; disturbing.
Ethlinn followed the direction of her gaze. <
Hurriedly the four of them reembarked, Muirne fuming about folk who not only throw away good money, but also insist on making a show of themselves for all the world to see. The carriage rattled off out of the marketplace. Ethlinn, whose eyes had been fastened to the rear window, signed, <
“My driver knows the hidden ways and the devious,” said Roisin, and she called instructions to the man. The passengers were jerked violently to one side as the carriage slewed around a corner on two wheels and bounced down a side-street. In the next instant they were thrown to the other side. Passersby scattered. Buildings flashed past.
“Be not affrighted—we will not overturn,” Roisin shouted over the racket of the wheels, “Brinnegar knows well what he is at.”
<
Roisin shouted to the coachman. As soon as the vehicle stopped, Ethlinn was out of the door with a movement surprisingly swift and lithe for her age. Leaning from the window, Imrhien saw her draw out her carlin’s Wand, planting it firmly in a muddy crack between the cobbles, in the middle of the street. Then the carlin’s hands moved in an unfamiliar gesture. It seemed to Imrhien that the living stave began to sprout with unnerving swiftness—that toothed briars, sharp nettles, and gorses budded and whipped out from its rind, tangling tentacles, weaving in and out betwixt walls and street, growing higher until within a few blinks of the eye they had formed a shadowy trellis of thorns. When the carlin snatched up the Wand, it broke away and the barrier remained in place. She hurried back to the carriage. As the team pulled away, a group of figures rounded the corner and ran full-tilt into the black ensnarlment. Some fell back—others became hooked and began writhing among the dim briars. The coachman’s whip cracked, the horses leaped forward. Soon the stymied pursuers were out of sight.
Safely back at Ethlinn’s house, Imrhien could not rid herself of the memory of the odd face in the marketplace. It seemed branded on the inner surface of her lids; every time she closed her eyes it sprang vividly before her. The mouth had stretched wide, the nostrils had been broadly flared. The hood rested on the head in a peculiar fashion, tucked up into points just above the ears. From beneath that hood, the slanting eyes had stared directly at her, with a look that seemed to come from somewhere dark and wild, somewhere alien. And the stranger had stood no more than four feet high. There was no doubt in her mind that this curious onlooker was eldritch and, furthermore, that it was malevolent.
<> signed Ethlinn, <
<
Elated, her daughter began to pack immediately.
Before dawn the next day, at the threshold of the house in Bergamot Street, Sianadh and Liam said their farewells. Three laden landhorses waited, held by Sheamais, one of the trusted Sulibhain brothers. The other two members of the small company were to meet them at a prearranged rendezvous outside the city.
An ache of grief churned inside Imrhien’s chest.
“I do not know when we may meet again,” the Ertishman said to her awkwardly. “By the time I return ye will be well away on the Caermelor Road, with Serrure’s Caravan.” He gave her a rakish grin. “We went through it together, did we not, chehrna? We went through it and ye opened the doors for me and I gave ye a name. There be an old saying in Finvarna, ‘Inna shai tithen elion—We have lived the days.”
She nodded, swallowing the tightness in her throat.
“Good speed to ye, and all luck. I hope ye may find what ye seek.”
<
Sianadh kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Never worry, Eth. Doom has waited for me before. It can keep on waiting. The Bear will prevail.”
He kissed Muirne on the back of her hand. Imrhien, he embraced clumsily, thumping her on the back like a drinking partner.
<
Her eyes searched the rough landscape of his face. The very intensity of her gaze was a fine chain linking the two of them together.
“Imrhien—it be the Ertish word for butterfly.”
Without another word, Sianadh turned abruptly. The chain snapped. He swung himself up into his saddle and rode off with the young Sulibhain. Liam, having taken his leave, followed.
Tears glistened on Muirne’s face. “Mother, shall we see them again?”
Ethlinn stood with her hands pressed together, gazing down the street.
Stormriders on ’tween-city runs reported that an incoming road-caravan—many of whose members were to join up with Serrure’s—had been delayed by harassment from large numbers of road-haunters. Not only was it late, but once the convoy arrived, time would be needed for repairs. This put back the departure date of Serrure’s Caravan. It would not, now, leave for another week or perhaps two. From time to time other, smaller convoys were leaving—however, these being less reputable and less well guarded, Ethlinn deemed them unsuitable for her children and Imrhien.
Meanwhile, the move from Bergamot Street to Clove Street had to be made quickly—to this purpose, everything had been boxed in advance. The cart arrived late on the same night of Sianadh’s departure, its wheels muffled with straw. Quickly and quietly they loaded their belongings. Ethlinn locked the door, and they drove away with a minimum of fuss. All seemed to be going well, but as the cart turned the corner out of Bergamot Street, Muirne abruptly jerked bolt upright.
“The brooch!”
<
“The gold brooch Uncle Bear gave me for my marksmanship—I have left it behind, hidden for safekeeping behind the wall-linings!”
<
“But it is a prize for my skill at archery! It is special. And he gave it to me. I would trade all my gold for it.”
<>
Muirne shuttered her face like a window.
Welcoming lamps shone softly from Roisin Tuillimh’s large, comfortable abode. Efficiently, swiftly, the cart was unloaded and driven away.
“Weariness sits heavy on you all,” said gray-haired Roisin. “Come rest awhile, partake of milk and honey to refresh, before your heads meet pillows. Some commotion I heard just now, perhaps your seelie helper the bruney. From your luggage it unloaded itself, methinks. If it stays, ’twill find ’tis never idle within these walls, I trow—my servants’ hands were erst full enough with but one mistress to wait upon—oh, and of course the lynxes, my pampered pets. The maids shall be told to leave your wight unmolested and not to spy, lest it should take offense and depart. And, dear Eth, a grounding-place for your Wand has been prepared beside the rose that grows in the front court.”
That night, when all were abed, Imrhien heard the soft sounds of Muirne moving about in the next room. She lighted a candle and stole in like some pale haunter of the marshes. Muirne, fully gowned in her emerald velvet, was about to descend the stair. She started guiltily, one hand on the banister, a dark-lantern in the other. Shadows enfolded her face like a mask.
“Go back to bed,” she whispered.
Imrhien fixed her candle in the socket of an empty holder. <
“I cannot go in daylight. People would see. I might be followed.”
Muirne started to go down the stairs. Imrhien grabbed her elbow.
<
Muirne hesitated, then nodded, relief flashing across her features. She waited while Imrhien dressed herself hurriedly in her magenta brocade, throwing across her shoulders a cloak the color of the evening ocean. Together the two damsels went silently out of the front door, crossed the tiny courtyard, and passed through the gate into the obscurity of the street.
At night, the city seemed to be another world. Angled roofs pitched and seesawed, black cutouts against the smoky veil obscuring the moon. Soft-footed the girls went, with covered lanterns, hugging the pools of inky shadow that flowed under walls. Straw blew down the street in dry wisps. A tame lynx ran along a wall and dropped down on the other side. In the distance someone screamed. A dog yapped, several streets away. Rowan tilhals hung over every door as a traditional precaution, even though wights seldom roamed in cities. Bruneys and such seelie domestic solitaries habitually remained indoors—their natural abodes were human shelters.
As the two girls drew near their destination, a knot of drunken revelers passed across the end of a street and caroused off down some lane, flinging back aberrant echoes of their incoherence. There were no nightwatchmen in this part of Tarv, to swing glaring lanterns into the faces of late loiterers and ask questions.
Bergamot Street seemed empty. There was no sign of movement. Soundlessly Muirne turned the key in the door of the deserted house. The irritating bell failed to ring, having been removed. All was quiet. Uneasily Imrhien wondered whether it was too quiet—she could remember no night stillness as profound as this, not in this street. Usually one could detect someone coughing in an upstairs window, the susurration of voices from a back room, the thin wail of an infant. The back of her neck tingled, as at the approach of the unstorm. She listened for a footfall, for any sound to crack the hard silence, but a numbness pressed on her ears like wads of wool.
The interior of the house felt unfamiliar in its emptiness. It seemed sad and somehow eerie, like an abandoned ship found drifting on the tide. With the lanterns partially uncovered, the intruders ascended the creaking stairs. The bare room above still held the lingering scent of lavender and something more, undefinable. Muirne groped behind the sackcloth on the walls.
“Here it be.”
She fastened the brooch to her gown, beneath her mantle.
They took up their lanterns again, making their way down to the front door. Shadows fled before their feet. The back window of the lower room stared: a blank eye.
The oppressive feeling grew stronger when they entered the street. It felt like a warning. Imrhien wished Muirne would hurry—she was fumbling with the lock, having trouble with the key.
Then the key clattered to the cobbles with a sudden noise like the riving of a muted bell. Cold on the stones, it lay alone, and no hand reached to retrieve it. The abductors had sprung from behind, clapping one hand across the mouths of their victims, twisting an arm behind their backs and dragging them to a cart waiting around the corner. In vain the girls struggled. A whip cracked twice, and the cart clattered away.
On the street, the key floated in a pool of shadow.
The house sprouted like a toadstool down by the river, in a dilapidated section of the city. Oily water glinted between ramshackle edifices bereft of paint and tiles. The area stank of mold and rising damp.
Little did the captives glimpse of their new surroundings before they were thrust roughly through the door, divested of their jewelry, dragged to a small, cheerless room, and locked in, alone. For a long time, Muirne sobbed quietly. Her companion prowled the room. It was furnished only with a straw pallet, a couple of rough woollen blankets, and two buckets, one empty and the other full of water. In the gloom, none of these objects was easy to discern. Weak illumination was provided by pale moonlight through a barred window, high in one wall. From beyond the window came the lapping and gurgling of the river. An eldritch tingle raked Imrhien’s spine—the faint sounds of scuttling overlaid the water’s music. The room was also furnished with rats. The cellars of Isse Tower had harbored such rodents—she hated them with a vehemence far out of proportion to their few transgressions against her.
The rats stayed out of sight. Eventually Imrhien curled up at one end of the pallet and fell asleep.
She woke, stiff and cold, with Muirne lying red-eyed beside her. Daylight the color of gruel was leaking in between the window-bars.
“Ye,” Muirne said scornfully, lifting her tearstained face, “how could ye sleep? Have ye no mind as to what has happened, to what shall happen?”
Imrhien shook her head. This she had pondered, as slumber overcame her. It seemed obvious that the wizard’s minions were carrying out their threat to harm Sianadh’s kin if he damaged Korguth’s reputation. But if so, why had they imprisoned herself and Muirne and not simply thrown them into the river? And if the abductors were indeed the wizard’s henchmen, why had they not made their move as soon as Sianadh had threatened their master? Why had they waited until Ethlinn’s house was empty? It made no sense.
Muirne said, “They were after ye, the uraguhne wizard’s roustabouts, and they took me by mistake. I heard one of them say, ‘Which one is it?’ to which another replied, ‘I know not. Take them both.’ Now we shall both suffer the same fate, which, most likely, is to be taken to Namarre and sold as slaves. Ah, my poor mother!” She began again to weep.
A key rattled in the lock, and the door banged open. A burly man with a pockmarked face stood beyond it. Another, clad in servant’s drab, lugged in a second straw pallet and threw it on the floor, followed by a couple of blankets and a dirty loaf of bread.
A third man strode in, his face almost invisible beneath a bushy brown beard. He wore merchant’s yellow.
“Stand up and give us a look at you.”
Then he swore a violent oath as the prisoners obeyed.
“So, Weasel—this is what you fetch for me out of the gutters—a henna’d queen and a bleached hag.” He studied Imrhien from head to toe.
“A form a man could worship and a face from out of his worst nightmares.”
Imrhien shivered. The man had Mortier’s stench.
“This could be better than I had hoped. Two for the price of one! ’Twill make for a fine show and a fine bidding after. Make sure you keep the little
dancers well fed, Weasel—they shall need to be light on their feet.”
As though this were a clever joke, the man outside the room laughed.
“Aye, Scalzo,” grunted Weasel, the drab servant. The bearded man stamped out of the room, followed by Weasel, who slammed the door.
<
Ignoring the impassioned signals, Muirne turned her face away.
Like all caged animals and incarcerated mortals, they took to pacing up and down. Their footsteps marked the passage of seconds, minutes, days. Seven short strides were the measure of their prison; that, they learned well. Once a day Weasel came bringing food that varied little—bread, pickled fish, and sometimes apples. He would stare at them with blank eyes, offering no conversation—completely devoid of compassion and fellow-feeling. Each morning Imrhien scratched the tally of the passing days on the wall with a piece of broken brick. As the row of marks lengthened, Muirne’s silences became shorter and her antipathy crumbled.
To pass the time they played games—Cloth-Scissors-Rock, guessing games, charades. They planned escapes. Muirne extended Imrhien’s knowledge of handspeak, and in return Imrhien related, as well as she could, her adventures with Sianadh among the mountains. Muirne wanted to know why she had been traveling there, but Imrhien avoided the subject, having promised Sianadh not to reveal the truth of the treasure at Waterstair. Nevertheless, out of the seed of the Ertish girl’s interest, sympathy grew.
Except for the passing of a mild shang wind that raised hazy specters of mist, there was scant distinction of one day from the next.
“Why do they keep us here for so long?” mused Muirne. She answered herself: “Likely they wait for a Seaship to arrive in Tarv Port—a slaver to take us to Namarre. We have missed our place in Serrure’s Caravan. It will have departed by now. Yet why should I be concerned about caravans? We shall be lucky enough to stay alive.”
On the fourteenth day, bickering voices arose beyond their door like angry wasps.
“We can wait no longer. Each day that passes brings more danger of discovery.”
The Bitterbynde Trilogy Page 30